


Bars of Rage

by nornling



Series: The Year Before Tomorrow [2]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Azkaban, Dementors, Gaunt Ring, Insanity, Murder, Self-Harm, The Resurrection Stone Ruins Everything (Again), Weaponized Legilimency, questionable decisions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-23
Updated: 2018-02-23
Packaged: 2019-03-22 20:52:47
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,166
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13772322
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nornling/pseuds/nornling
Summary: Hermione Granger underestimates a trap, and her failure has drastic repercussions.Year Two of the Year Before Tomorrow series





	1. Conglomerate Cognizance

**_Year II-_ ** _Conglomerate Cognizance_

She became aware of her consciousness at once, but Hermione did not open her eyes. The dim light blinded her even through her eyelids, and she could only imagine what it would be like if they weren't shut. Still, it would be just plain stupid not to watch what was going on around her. Better to wake up on your own than with a blade to the face, right? Gathering her willpower, she opened her eyes, prepared to see herself surrounded on all sides by sadistic, genocidal witches and wizards.

Instead, there was nothing, no one. Why would they have just left her there? They seemed so eager to capture her alive, she could only assume that she was even a little bit important. Important enough to distract Bellatrix from the cousin she hated, which said quite a bit.

Sirius. Oh, Merlin... what would she say to his friends, his teachers? It was her fault, all her fault... Hermione sat up and dry heaved. Her stomach was empty, and there was a searing pain from deep within. Her head ached from the force of her movements.

 _Am I really in the same place?_ she asked herself, looking around. The bodies were gone, as she'd expected, but so were the fighters, the damage, or any hint that the Battle had occurred at all. What was going on? She'd helped repair Hogwarts in her own timeline, and it was definitely not the work of a few hours. It had taken months, and there had still been definite traces of _wrongness,_ even after the physical damage was healed.

Besides that, why was she on the stone floor instead of a bed? Why was she the only one there?

Only one thing made sense, and she couldn't help but hope that she was right.

Where could she find a newspaper, or a calendar, or something? Oh, but Albus would know she was in the castle. The wards were tied to the Headmaster, of course. Anyone who had read _Hogwarts: A History_ would have known that.

The gargoyles leaped aside on her third attempt at guessing the password. The security of the Headmaster's office was extremely weak, so it was good that Albus himself was not. Perhaps even the password worked a subtle sort of psychology on potential visitors. They would be prepared to meet a silly, eccentric, kindly old man. His reputation would precede him, so a visitor would be slightly off-balance due to the contrasting information, and they would be cautious.

"Come in," Albus called before she could even lift her hand to knock. His voice was only as loud as it needed to be.

Hermione opened the door and stepped through, settling on the familiar chair across from his. "Hello, Headmaster Dumbledore," she said respectfully. Deference would get her far here. If that didn't work, she would resort to brutal honesty. Not that she hadn't planned to tell him the truth anyway, but the delivery would set the stage for how this year would go.

"Hello, Miss...?" His expression was polite but guarded, and Hermione caught the glimmer of intrigue in his eyes. He didn't know her, and that didn't often happen with the older wizard. He'd probably either worked with or taught the majority of wizarding Britain. She looked young enough that she should be in school still, and that, more than anything else, probably set the gears turning in his head, trying to figure out the enigma that was Hermione.

"Granger. Hermione Granger. You won't know me for years yet." A part of her, distant yet insistent, was telling her that she shouldn't be saying so much. Hermione found it easy to ignore. Sirius was dead, and she would not let it happen again.

The curiosity in Albus's eyes sharpened, and Hermione wondered idly whether he could cut her with it. It occurred to her that that was not a sane thought. "How many years? Why did you feel it necessary to come back here?"

This straightforwardness was uncharacteristic, to say the least. Hermione was tired, and grateful that she didn't have to participate in the mental acrobatics which were usually a given in conversation with Albus. "I come from 1999. There was a war, and we lost it. Pretty badly."

Albus leaned forward and listened, eyes twinkling at her over his wrinkled, folded hands. Subtle noises and movements coaxed out the details, and Hermione felt absolved in the telling.

Finally, the words stopped flowing and stumbled to an awkward halt. Her tears trembled, unshed, on her lashes as she crouched lower in her seat. Wild hair covered her face, and obscured the Headmaster's from view.

"Where are the Horcruxes located?" Albus asked after a long moment of silence.

Hermione let out a shuddering breath. "He... He has five now. The Locket, the Cup, the Diary, the Diadem, and..." she struggled to recall the last one. Her head was fuzzy, and she suspected she was close to collapsing. "The Ring. That one is the one with the Resurrection Stone..."

If she had been looking at him in that moment she would have seen the flare of desire and obsession. If she'd been looking up, she would have caught the warning signs and refused to say anything more. However, it was not so.

"The Resurrection Stone?" Albus repeated evenly, clearly urging her to elaborate.

"Yes... the Dark Lord didn't know that's what it was. You found it, actually, sir. And then Snape killed you, but it was planned. You wanted him to gain control of the Elder Wand in your stead rather than let it fall into enemy hands. It didn't really work out as planned, because Malfoy disarmed you first. Draco... he helped Harry and I. Lestrange killed him for it, and so the Wand became his. Voldemort found out and killed Lestrange, and so he became the Master of the Wand. He didn't really believe in the Deathly Hallows, I think. He just wanted the Wand. What would he have done with the others? Who would he care enough about to see if he turned the Stone? What would he do with the Cloak? No, it was just the Wand for him, because power is all that matters to him." Hermione lifted one leg and clasped her arms around the knee.

"I see," Albus said slowly, successfully disguising the greed in his voice. There was a silence while Hermione could fairly hear him mulling over this information. Then, without a segue, "Will you stay here this year, too?"

Hermione nodded. "I need someplace safe where I can come and go, and also where I have access to the students. That's only really feasible if I stay here."

"Will you be Sorted?"

"No, there's no need," Hermione said, remembering with unease the parting words the Sorting Hat had left her with the year before. "I was Sorted into Gryffindor twice. I'm sure we can forgo that this time."

"Of course," Albus agreed easily.

"Oh! I can't use the dormitory. Teenage girls really have a way of finding out your secrets. I could just use the Room of Requirement." She wasn't really asking for permission, but she figured Albus should know where to find her. Her fears seemed at this point to be unfounded. She would take the risk that was the Room of Requirement over spending another year sleeping in alcoves.

It didn't occur to her that Albus hadn't even heard of the Room of Requirement before that discussion.

"If that's what you need. Speaking of necessities- you will need school supplies."

Hermione blinked once. Gods, but she needed sleep. "Yes. When will I go to Diagon Alley?"

"This weekend, most likely. Do you have the money? If not, Hogwarts can provide for you."

Her pride didn't want her to accept, but it was true: she had nothing to buy her supplies with. "I find myself... temporarily without funds."

Albus's eyes twinkled madly. "I see. It will be taken care of."

The silence hung between them like a curtain. Hermione breathed in deeply, then said, "I cannot tell the other students why I'm here."

"Of course not."

"They will ask why I'm here, at sixteen. A sixth year."

"And what will you say?"

"Mm. Perhaps... I am a refugee. But I could say nothing." Hermione tapped her lip thoughtfully. "It worked last year, it'll work again. I think we should start collecting Horcruxes as soon as possible. We should probably start with the Diadem, which is here in the school. Then Gaunt's ring... After all, that one is the second easiest to locate with the fewest safeguards. No outside help is required."

This time, Albus was better at disguising his greed. Although Hermione was looking straight at him, she spotted nothing more than the briefest flicker. She put it down as determination and excitement to get rid of a Dark object. "Is tomorrow early enough?"

Hermione considered for a moment. "Yes, for the Diadem. But three days for the Ring," she said. "It would be better if we have more time to plan."

She wanted to be alone. She wanted to sort things through. This discussion was necessary, she knew, but the solace of a warm bed sounded better than pretty much anything else. Her thoughts needed time to process, and sleep was the best way she knew.

Sirius... Oh, shite. She would meet him again once school started. How would she handle that? He was more observant than Harry and Ron by far, and just as rash. She didn't know if she could even look at him again.

Albus seemed to notice that her thoughts had wandered. "Of course, fine. If that is all, I believe a bed is waiting for you in the Room of Requirement. Time travel is a tiring ordeal, and we have much to do tomorrow."

"Yes. Have a good night, Headmaster," Hermione said, standing and giving a short bow. Albus inclined his head in response.

Several minutes later Hermione found herself pacing outside what appeared to be a blank wall. _I need a place to sleep. I need a place to sleep . I need a place to sleep._

A door appeared, plain and wooden. The doorknob was simple metal, and Hermione grabbed and twisted it.

The Room was small and cozy. The bed looked far more comfortable than the four-posters in the Gryffindor dormitories. Hooray for wishes, she supposed.

The bed was huge, making her feel like a child as she snuggled into the pillows. It was already warm. Why hadn't she done this before? This was by far the best bed she'd ever slept in.

There, as safe and alone as she felt, she could finally think about the last year.

Where had things gone so horribly wrong?

It was obviously her failure to secure the Diary and the Locket. That was her first mistake. In order to kill the Dark Lord she had to destroy all of the Horcruxes, of course. Breaking into Gringott's had been a huge risk. She should have done that last, because that was what had alerted Voldemort to her hunt.

Some miracle had given her a second chance. She had to learn from the previous year's mistakes.

Poor, reckless Sirius. If only she could have stopped him from fighting, but she knew what he would have said. He would have told her that he was seventeen, a legal adult, and no one could stop him from defending his home. It's what Harry would have said. What Ron would have said. Any number of her sweet, brave Gryffindor boys. She didn't know why he'd stayed to defend her. Hadn't he tried to kill her himself?

Tears burned tracks down her face and disappeared into her voluminous hair. She refused to mourn her boys now. It was not too late anymore: _she had another chance._ She would save them all. Her boys would live, they would thrive! She could not afford to make mistakes. Not now. Every action would affect the future.

If she wanted to stop Sirius from fighting and dying this time around, she would have to keep the fight from ever occurring. She had to keep the Dark Lord and his army far, far away from Hogwarts.

She did sleep that night. Perhaps the Room had given her no choice.

*|II8II|*

"Sorry, my dear, sorry," a very young Madame Malkin murmured as Hermione hissed in pain. She wanted to tell the older woman to watch her needle, because this was the fourth time she'd been jabbed with it, but she held her tongue.

Her robes were coming along well, despite occasional minor injuries and subsequent profuse apologies. It was a good thing, too, as Hermione had long ago tired of the pressing crowds of Diagon Alley. She just wanted to get back to the nearly empty castle.

Several long moments passed before Hermione could leave the shop, new robes folded neatly into a bag. Albus waited for her just outside.

"I believe that was the last thing, yes?" Albus said. Hermione agreed. He didn't mention her definite lack of animal companions, for which she was grateful.

Echo was yet another beloved friend whom she'd lost. It shouldn't have been permanent, if the year had simply reset, but a full year of growth and experience on the part of the Phoenix was lost. She should still be able to go back to Harry's to retrieve the egg, for which she was infinitely grateful.

"To Hogwarts, then," Albus said. Hermione hooked her arm in his. She had the ability to Apparate, of course, but she didn't have a license in this time. Besides that, only the Headmaster had the ability to Apparate within the castle. Even if either of those things weren't issues, Hermione wasn't willing to waste what little magic she'd built up.

The pair Disapparated with a loud crack. Hermione was familiar with the nausea-inducing feeling of being squeezed through a tube. She always felt at the end like something vital had been displaced, but barely felt the urge to throw up anymore.

"I have something to do in Hogsmeade," she announced once her stomach settled.

Albus nodded. "Do you need a carriage?"

Hermione shivered. She didn't think she could handle the thestrals just then. It would take a few more days before she could face her realities again. "No. I could use the exercise." It wasn't a lie. Steady movement toward a solid goal- that's what she needed.

The sun beat down upon her, and Hermione was glad, not for the first time, that she had dressed in Muggle clothing. She wouldn't have wanted to wear her Hogwarts uniform, either, as that would certainly call attention to herself.

Upon reaching Hogsmeade, Hermione wondered whether she should see Aberforth or Keane first. Aberforth had survived the battle, at least as far as she was aware. She was grateful once again for second chances. Their argument could be buried in a different timeline, forgotten to all but her. Still, perhaps she needed more time before seeing Abe again.

She missed Echo, so Harry's it was.

The door swung open at even the lightest of her pushes, but not to the occasionally harsh wind. Hermione was certain there was some kind of magic behind it, and resolved to ask Keane someday, when they had built up the level of trust they'd had before. She stepped through and let the door shut behind her.

"Hello, Grey Witch," said Keane. "It's good to see you again."

"You... but how?" Hermione crossed the distance between them and peered up at his face before stepping back. "The year reset, how could you remember me?"

Keane sighed, as if in despair of her stupidity. "Time isn't relevant here. I am bound to the shop, so while I am aware of the time you are experiencing, it does not occur within the Shop. The years are all one and none at all. It is only linear in patches, such as when you are here. You should really already know this."

"Sure," Hermione murmured, tugging at one of her curls. Usually she would have asked question upon question on the subject, but her thoughts still weren't very cohesive. She would have to stay on a safer topic until her mind had settled. "So is Echo...?"

"She is bound to you. She experiences time as you do, but not space. She is remarkably intelligent, you know, so she came here in anticipation of your return." Keane moved to the first door, clearly expecting her to follow, which she did.

Echo was not in the least difficult to spot, since within seconds of opening the door Hermione felt the flutter of her wings. Echo nuzzled into her hair, scolding her with quiet, stern trills.

"Yes, I'm sorry!" Hermione giggled, trying to keep Echo from falling off. It was a real concern, with how much she was moving around.

After several moments of assuring the phoenix that she was, in fact, actually there, Hermione turned to Keane. "I have some questions," she warned him.

"I thought you might. I may not answer all of them," he said.

"I understand."

The trio walked back into the main room, where there were two soft-looking armchairs waiting for them.

Once seated, Hermione began. "Time is irrelevant here? How can that be possible? And how can you know me, if I am existing in multiple points at once? I was in this exact time before, so how can you separate these two Hermiones and their timelines?"

Keane raised an eyebrow, probably at her rapid speech. "The answer to your first question is a very long story, one I don't feel like telling right now. As for your existing in multiple points at the same time, your personal timeline is actually fairly linear, even if there are a few loops. Your timeline exists in multiple timelines, as you know. That means that your past year still exists somewhere. You can't access it anymore, since you are no longer there. I can tell which timeline you're in as soon as you walk in here. That doesn't mean that there are two or more of you. It's all you, just hopping around. You see?"

Hermione blinked. "So the difference isn't me, it's the timelines?"

"You can think of it that way, if you wish," he said flippantly. "It's much more complex than that, but I suppose you wouldn't understand."

She swallowed her indignation. Contempt was just part of their interaction; it would do nothing to rail against him. "Fine. So time isn't relevant here. But does that affect me, or anyone else who comes in?"

"Time will still pass outside, but as long as you're in here your body will not age. Not that that matters much, since your stone measures the time outside, not the time in here."

Hermione froze. "What do you mean, 'my stone'? What stone?"

Keane groaned. "A slip of the tongue. Pardon me."

"No," Hermione disagreed. "You meant something. It has to do with me. Please tell me." She wondered for a moment whether she would even be capable of throttling the answer out of him should he refuse. Probably not.

He thought for a moment, clearly weighing his options. "I can't tell you much," he conceded, and Hermione beamed at him. "There's a stone, in your chest. Your friend, Aberforth, placed it there. It's what brought you to your past in the first place. As I recall, you feel it burning when the year resets. Is that so?"

"Yes, it is," she said slowly. She should have thought something about that was worth following up on, but she'd always assumed it was her heart. "Wait. You mean that Aberforth opened up my ribcage and placed a stone there, without telling me? Or, at least, without me remembering?"

"Indeed."

"But- but that's incredibly dangerous! How do I know it won't disrupt one of my vital organs if I move the wrong way, or something?"

Keane laughed unkindly. "You are a witch, you know? Magic exists?"

Hermione felt her heart plummet down to her shoes. Ron had said that to her, when they were twelve years old and dealing with the Devil's Snare. She tried so hard not to think about him, because when she did it felt like a Dementor was nearby.

"Oh, hush. That's enough of that," he drawled, but he did look a little bit worried about her. She would take the small victories where she could.

"Sorry," she whispered automatically, composing herself. "So he used magic to fix it in place. What if I got it removed? What then? Would I go back to the future?"

"No. Well, perhaps, but there would be too many complications. When you came back in time, the magic had to decide what was a part of your body and what wasn't, in order to shape your younger self. It decided that the stone was originally a part of you, so it functions as a part of your body. Besides, why would you want to go back to that time? From what I understand, it was awful."

"I was just asking. So that means I can never remove it? Why not, if I could have my tonsils or my gallbladder removed?"

"It's your magic center now. It's where all of that processes, which, incidentally, will help when you finally get your magic back. You don't want to burn up, do you?" Keane stood, done answering questions. Hermione did not protest. He'd already told her so much that she hadn't known before.

*|II8II|*

Albus didn't question Echo's presence, annoyingly enough. He couldn't _possibly_ know about her or where she'd come from, but he accepted her with all the grace of a barmy old man.

He did, however, question whether she should come along on their Horcrux hunt. Hermione didn't want to leave her behind as she had in the battle, but she worried at the danger she might be subjected to. Keane was more than happy to watch her.

They had retrieved the Diadem from the Room of Requirement as soon as she'd come back from Hogsmeade, and it was currently split down the middle in Albus's office.

"You've done this before?" Albus said, removing his wand from his robes. Hermione wasn't sure whether he was referring to Legilimency or retrieving the Ring, but either way the answer would be the same.

She nodded, trying to picture the old house of the Gaunt's. The image came far more easily than it had the year before, since previously Hermione had been going on the memory Harry had shown her. "Do it now," she said, sealing off every other thought except that image behind mental barriers.

"Legilimens," Albus incanted aloud, surely for her benefit.

"Got it?" she asked after a moment.

"Indeed." He held his arm out, and she hooked her hand in the crook of his elbow. After looking at her to confirm that she was ready, he turned.

Hermione leaned with him to make sure that she didn't lose her grip. She felt the moment the ground disappeared beneath their feet. It was all over in a few moments, and she took several deep breaths as her stomach settled.

"This is where Tom's mother lived?" Albus asked, eyeing the dilapidated shack with fascination.

"Yes," Hermione confirmed. "The Locket was hers, but the ring belonged to Voldemort's uncle. Voldemort murdered his grandfather and framed his uncle. Personally, I think that it couldn't have happened to two better people. Merope grew up in a horrible environment, and those two were the direct causes. Perhaps Voldemort wouldn't even have been born if they hadn't been so awful to her." There was a thought, distant yet insistent. Hermione tried to catch it, but it didn't stay still long enough to take form. Soon it was gone.

"Are there any protections on it?" Albus asked.

"Yes," Hermione said. "Voldemort wasn't so arrogant that he'd assume that the remoteness of the location was an adequate safeguard. There's a charm set around the immediate vicinity that's meant to scramble the thoughts. Without my magic, I'm more susceptible to its effects, so I'll be the one to stay back here and remind you what you're doing." There the thought was again, though this time Hermione ignored it altogether. "The Ring is under the floorboards. There's a disillusionment charm set on it, so you'll have to feel around for a while."

Albus started forward, taking long strides. After a few steps he stopped and looked around with a puzzled expression on his face.

"Go on," Hermione reminded him.

"Ah, yes, the Horcux." He ran forward, his hair and robes streaming behind him comically. This time he made it to the edge of the ruins before stopping, dazed. Here the charm seemed to gain strength.

"The Horcrux!" she called after him. She had to keep doing so every few steps, and every few seconds when he made it to the Shack. "Under the floorboards!" If she recalled correctly, the floor would be mostly rotted and finding the Ring would take very little time.

He sat up on his knees, clutching what she could only assume was the Ring. He ran towards her again, which was a bit less hysterical than when he was running away. "Let's go," he said. That thought was back, but when she tried to focus on it her head started to ache.

"Let's go," she agreed.


	2. Altruism Interred

**_Year II-_ ** _ Altruism Interred _

Albus turned on his heel, whisking them away from their grim surroundings. When Hermione opened her eyes she found herself in Albus's office.

"Ariana?" Albus whispered, his voice hoarse and yet somehow hopeful. "Mother?"

The Ring was on his index finger, the other hand still resting on it. This was  _ wrong. _

He was visibly dying, hand first. Hermione stared in horror at the spreading curse for only a moment before lunging forward. "Take it off!" she shrieked, grabbing for his hand and attempting to wrestle it away from him. Gods, how had she forgotten?

Albus batted her hand away, surprisingly strong for such an old man. Hermione tripped over a side table and went down, dragging Albus with her by his sleeve. It was somewhat easier to handle his twisting now that he wasn't so much taller than she was, but he was still agile enough to keep her away.

The blackness disappeared under his robe.

In her momentary distraction Albus successfully elbowed her in the face. Hermione reeled back, clutching her bloody lip. In the absence of Hermione's offense, Albus was free to stare adoringly at something only he could see. His hands were closed tightly around the Ring.

She had no choice, not when time was such a factor. Slowly, carefully, Hermione fumbled for her wand and raised it. "Diffindo," she whispered, pulling on her meagre magic reserves and slashing as precisely as she could. It rose sluggishly, feeling somewhat like clogged sinuses, but her desperation gave it the tug it needed.

He screamed and screamed, his concentration broken and the specters gone. Hermione wasn't sure in all the bloody confusion how many fingers she'd cut off, but she saw the huge, ugly ring roll across the floor.

"I'm sorry," she told him, "but I had to. You'll agree that I had to. Just let me heal what I can, please. Please." He would not relinquish his fist, though his piercing sobs and screeches lessened in volume until they were mere whimpers.

The blackness crept out from beneath his other sleeve. She hadn't stopped its spread at all. In fact, it seemed to be getting faster. What could she do to help? What had Snape used? She didn't know! She'd researched, sure, but the method to stopping a deadly curse just wasn't something that anyone recorded in books. It was passed by word of mouth.

There was nothing. She wracked her brain, and there was nothing.

Albus's tiny sounds of pain choked off entirely. It had reached his lungs, Hermione guessed. Very soon it would reach his heart and his whole body would shrivel up and blacken.

Tears blurred her vision, which was a mercy. When the tears fell and she could see again she saw a mummy, a twisted corpse. It was shrinking before her eyes. He was already dead. There was nothing she could do.

She jumped and spun at the earbursting sound of the office door being blasted open. The last thing she saw was the red light of a Stupefy headed straight for her.

*|II8II|*

"Renervate."

Hermione awoke all at once. Around her were an assembly of wizards in Auror robes and with wands pointed at her face. They were in an unfamiliar room that Hermione could only assume was within the Ministry.

"State your name," a man drawled. Hermione turned and noticed him sitting on a wooden chair beside her cot, glaring impatiently and with a Quick Quotes quill poised at the ready. He looked young, but somehow gaunt and self-important. Very Percy-like.

He wanted her name. Of course he wanted her name. She'd been arrested, hadn't she? Albus had died right in front of her with no other witnesses, so naturally she was the prime suspect. The image of blackened flesh flashed through her mind, and dimly she registered the horror but it was like a vision through murky water. "Hermione Granger," she said, shoving the image, and the emotion, away.

"Date of Birth?"

"September 19, 1959." Her head ached, and those wands were still trained on her.

"Names of your parents or guardians?"

"None," Hermione gulped. How many Aurors were there, anyway? It was hard to focus. Ten, she thought. Maybe eleven. Nine?

The man leaned forward in his chair, to all observation trying to look into her soul. "How did you come to be in the office of Albus Dumbledore yesterday morning?" The quill scribbled in the air next to him, recording everything the man's senses were picking up.

Dread sank in her gut, anchoring her in place and turning her whole body into lead. She couldn't tell them. She couldn't tell her side of things without mentioning Horcruxes and Deathly Hallows and if there was one thing she knew, it was that only a select few could know of those. But she couldn't very well lie, either, since she had no doubt she had a lie detector spell set on her. So she took a deep breath and shut her mouth.

"Do you admit to killing Albus Dumbledore?"

In a way, she supposed she had, even if she hadn't meant to. She'd been unable to save him, and that might as well have been the same thing. "Yes," she whispered.

"Why?"

She said nothing.

"We're done here," he announced, obviously disgusted with her. "Take her away."

Invisible chains wrapped around her arms and wrists, and two Aurors on either side of her shoved their arms under her armpits and lifted her bodily onto her feet. The pressure hurt, but Hermione was positive they didn't care. She didn't resist when they led her out the door. She was too busy panicking. They were taking her to Azkaban.

Her limbs thrashed but no amount of strength could break through her bonds. She kicked her legs, aiming for the legs of the Aurors beside her. With a heavy sigh, one of them bound her feet as well. With no outlet for her growing hysteria she could only weep. Heaving breaths escaped her but would not return, and soon she felt faint. Her courage waned and she sagged, allowing tears to drip down her cheeks until her body could no longer spare the water. All the while she was ignored, her entourage dragging her along in complete silence.

An iron collar was fitted around her throat, and as soon as it settled heavily upon her collarbones Hermione found that sound was no longer possible. She couldn't cry out when she felt the tug of the Portkey or when she landed in a hard chair. She couldn't so much as gasp when one took her blood and pulled out a few strands of her hair.

She hadn't realized that she was unconscious until she woke up in a cell. There was a cot, a chamber pot, and a basin of water. She wore a striped uniform prison gown, made of what she could only assume was burlap. A very thin horizontal window covered the entire crease between the back wall and the ceiling, letting in dim daylight. As far as Hermione could tell, there was no other source of light. It was frigid and dark and smelled of mould and stagnant water. There was nothing she could do about it.

Hermione lay down on the cot and closed her eyes, determined not to let it drive her insane this early.

*|II8II|*

Undoubtedly the most unpleasant reintroduction to consciousness would have to be the involuntary reliving of the scene in Malfoy's Manor when she was eighteen. Not the experience itself, not completely, but she was forced to feel those emotions as vividly as she had then. The pain, the desperation, the visceral terror, but without the consolation of courage or purpose. Just pure horror. Pointless, meaningless, and yet real as it had ever been. The skin on her left forearm itched where her scars would have been.

The Dementor hovered by the bars of her cell, a skeletal hand reaching for her. It was so cold, so absolutely gelid, that Hermione thought her cells might freeze solid.

It was always cold here, she found. The Dementors would waft past Hermione's cell, leaving ice to form beneath her skin and bitterness to take hold inside her heart and mind.

Of course, she knew that the year would reset, same as before, but the doubts that pummeled her brain in her hours of solitude whispered that she would remain here forever, in the place where all was glacial and lonely. Perhaps, hissed the voices, it was a fluke, a one time thing, and now she had truly screwed herself over.

How could anyone stay here? How had Sirius managed to not go insane? Hagrid had only spent two months in this bloody prison and he'd looked near mad. And that was Hagrid, the gentle, simple giant. What about her? She'd done so much to deserve this, seen so much.

Was she insane? No, not yet. Close, though, too close. The symptoms were all there, objectively speaking, but she refused to believe that she'd been unhinged so easily, so soon.

How long had she been here so far? Weeks? Months? It was hard to tell. Hermione never saw sunlight anymore. Day and night were the same to her. The food slipped to her by the faceless wraiths were the only indication of time.

Sometimes she would hallucinate, on her really bad episodes. Harry appeared sometimes, glasses broken and taped, and would sit with her in her cell until she blinked one time too many and he was gone. Ron didn't appear as often, but he talked to her. Sometimes he would stroke her hair and say that the queen is the most powerful player on the board, and sometimes he would laugh in her face and call her a nightmare.

"Where are your friends, Hermione? You thought you had some, didn't you? You delusional little know-it-all." He would grab her chin and force her to look at him. His nails dug in when she tried to close her eyes.

"I'm sorry!" she would shriek, unable to find the words to defend herself or even make sense of what she was being blamed for. "I'm sorry!"

"Sorry doesn't fix it, Granger. How many people are dead because of you? Why couldn't you just leave it alone?" Ron's face was right there in front of hers, not giving her any chance to look away from him. Merlin, he looked so young... eleven years old was a long time ago, wasn't it?

"Because of me?" Eleven years. What about her? How old was she? Too old to make mistakes. Too old to be blameless. Too young to be faultless. Too young to be wise.

That cruel expression was nothing like the Ron she knew. Or was it? Hermione couldn't remember anymore.

"Yes, Granger, keep up." He sounded like a parody of Draco when they were younger, and the thought of that blonde little boy brought some clarity back to her.

Draco and Harry had somehow gotten ridiculously close in such a short period of time. More than likely that helped Draco along on the path of good. It was hard to resist Harry once he'd gotten under your skin, after all. They'd both been so  _ happy. _ Harry seemed almost whole again after losing Ron. Draco was in love with him, Hermione knew, but Harry was devoted entirely to Ginny. Draco minded, though he claimed to her that he didn't.

Because love makes people selfless and stupid, Draco stuck his neck out for them. Mostly for Harry, though. He took them in and protected them and he was slaughtered for it by his uncle. Harry and Hermione were already gone, to challenge Voldemort. She'd listened to Harry and Draco have a row. Harry was in a blind rage over Ginny's death, and Draco covered his jealousy with concern. Well, he was right. It had been bloody moronic to go after the Half-Man. Draco was asleep when they left.

To the best of Hermione's knowledge, he hadn't survived the night. Poor little boy. Love creates fools, and Draco just happened to be a dead fool. Like Harry, and Ron, and Remus, and Tonks, and Fred and-

And then she would blink and the cell would be back to normal, just her and her dissipating sanity.

Harry and Ron were the main characters, but some others would appear, too. Fred and George were frequent visitors as well, white beards tucked into their belts to mimic Dumbledore's.

"Well, Hermione-"

"-you fucked this one up."

"How did you-"

"-get in here?"

Hermione would look up at them with blank eyes and whisper, "I don't know. How do I get out?"

They never answered. Sometimes they laughed. Sometimes they just left.

Dementors eventually started stopping at her cell for minutes at a time, just staring at her under their hoods and leaving her shaking uncontrollably. She had less to give, so little happiness left, why would they show more interest in her? They were gone, just gone, and no amount of searching would bring them back.

She remembered how Hagrid looked when he came back from Azkaban. Haunted, empty eyes... was that how she looked? Would a guard pass through and look at her wild hair and twisted expression and think her just another one of the prisoners?

Was that what she was?

Was that what she always was?

Maybe she  _ was _ insane. Maybe it was always there, just under the surface, buried in joy both real and imagined. She didn't know what to hope for.

Harry sat beside her and leaned on her shoulder. Hermione put her arm around him, taking comfort in his presence.

Time ran in centuries. Hermione was almost certain of this.

Count doubles. 2. 4. 16. 256. 65,536. Four... four billion two hundred ninety-four... something. Start over. 4,294,967,296. She clawed it out on the back of her hand to check her work.

She scratched primitive art into her skin to pass the time. There was actually quite a bit of room if she worked small. As soon as she was good enough, she would start on the walls. Her fingernails were bloody and raw, and at some point she noticed how much better her art looked using her natural crimson paint as a medium.

Her skin stung all over, sometimes keeping her awake, but Hermione quickly became accustomed to it. The beauty of her designs were well worth the pain.

What was a little more pain, anyway? She would never get out of here. Her whole world was pain now; she might as well enjoy it.

_ My name is Hermione Granger. _

_ My name is Hermione Granger. _

_ My name is Hermione- _

No.

Why didn't she think of this before? Her last name was the only thing stopping her from being a pureblood, at least to the world. Who could she be? Miss Granger was someone else, anyway. Maybe she hadn't been Miss Granger for a while now.

She was just Hermione now. A lot of research would be necessary to find out which family she should belong to, and that meant she needed to find a library.

And just like that, Hermione had a purpose again. It may not have been much, but it was enough to throw herself into plan after plan to get out of that torturous place.

Dementors didn't stop at her cell anymore. She didn't even feel much of a shiver when they passed by anymore. Was it possible to develop a tolerance for Dementors?

Never mind that. How was she going to be free?

*|II8II|*

She was slowly, grudgingly accepting that there was no way. The only kinds of magic not prevented by the wards were those involving the soul, or the mind. Like Animagus transformation, or Metamorphmagus transfiguration- pretty much any magic that was intrinsic to the person, or would work without a wand. Hermione had never had the time to devote to becoming an Animagus, since it involved nearly full focus for years. She wasn't a Metamorphmagus, or a touch healer, or anything else. Even if she could use her magic, she would hardly be able to produce an Alohomora, much less anything more complex.

And with no ability to research, she was completely buggered.

She'd felt helpless before, but not like this. When she was trying to cope with Minerva's death, she had books to comfort her. There was knowledge there, knowledge that would prevent her from ever feeling so helpless again. But here she was, a man's death on her conscience and this time with no way to research. Nothing but her own memories.

Her body hardly even felt real anymore.

Some nights- it was always night- memories would consume her.

Her mother, blinking at her daughter making the grass grow tall around her in a matter of seconds. "Hermione, this talent of yours is lovely, but other people won't think so. Imagine if Mrs Coleridge were to find out." Mrs Coleridge was her next door neighbor and she was a right harpy, always nagging on Hermione's hair and her penchant for reading and her overall lack of social skills. If she were to learn about Hermione's magic, there would be no end of it. She might even call the police, after informing the whole neighborhood.

"All right," she'd say, pushing herself to her feet and stepping onto the sidewalk.

Her father, smiling way too happily as he hugged her goodbye. Watching him turn away before the train had even left. Watching her mother stare just a moment longer before she turned away, too.

Listening to her mother sobbing about her in the next room, crying about how she just wanted a normal child. Her father agreeing.

The permeating angry parasite of stony shame, bleeding out onto her pillow and being soaked back up by morning. Glaring at the ceiling in the dark, thinking harsh words, screaming them.  _ It's not my fault. It's not my fault you wanted to have me. It's not my fault I was born this way. It's not my fault you're disappointed.  _ **_It's not my fault._ **

But then she'd wake up in the morning just so utterly tired.

She felt every emotion from back then. The bitterness, mostly, and the muted yet persistent love. They were so happy in Australia. So much happier never to have had a daughter at all, and especially not her. They were so in love, it hurt to look.

And now those things that made them proud of her were disintegrating in little dust clouds. In prison for murder. It was best that they would never know.

Had she ever been fully accepted? Fully wanted? She was no longer sure. She could no longer remember.

Most of the memories were from before she'd ever known about Hogwarts, but there were plenty from after Harry's death. Many were vague, such as reading in the newspaper of the recapture of Hogwarts, of children shivering in a guest bed with werewolf bites days before the full moon, of the sound of a man's last breath. Of the silence under Minerva's rib cage, and the grimace petrified on her face. Of being two wizards, one a little girl and one an old man, against an army. Of being helpless and useless. Of struggling from one meal to the next, of never quite being warm.

Then there were those from the past year. Of Sirius's laugh and Lily's smile. Of Sirius clasping her hands in his wrists and begging for her to tell him what was wrong. Of turning away from the purest thing she had. Of Sirius's silhouette on the cracked floor in the corridor.

That scene turned in her head over and over. Waking up and seeing him dead. Of being helpless and useless.

It was clear now that she'd loved him, and that was possibly the worst part.

He'd been tortured by his family by now. He'd run away to James's house, just like he was supposed to. She hoped his suffering would be over for a while. This time she would not be the cause of his death. This time she was locked away. A danger to the world, she was.

If what Keane had told her was true, then she could give Aberforth the credit for all this. Hermione supposed she was paying the price for it. And for her own decision to play the mastermind. Then again, she knew she would never be able to just sit and let things happen. It may be merely the will of a fallible human man but it was still an opportunity, and an opportunity she couldn't bring herself to waste.

Self-mutilation would do her no good. In the moments between the visits of the Dementors, Hermione retreated into her mind. Even a Squib could practice Occlumency, and for all intents and purposes that's what she was. Perhaps this way she could save herself, even just a little bit.

The turning point was when a man was tossed into the cell opposite hers. He was close enough that they could talk, but she quickly discovered that he was a miserable, cowardly cockroach of a wizard.

There were, however, other uses for such people.

Her Occlumency was improving rapidly, but it's complement was sadly lacking in her. Legilimency, a skill with infinite uses, mastered by only just over a dozen people worldwide. At least, that's what the registers said. There were fewer Legilimens than there were Animagi! She knew the basics of it, yes, but she could never bring herself to practice regularly on anyone.

This man could hardly be called a "person", she decided. It didn't count.

"Come talk to me," she'd croon as best as she could with her ruined throat. "Come look at me, Titus. I'm lonely."

And he would scramble forward, stretching out a hand through the bars although he would never be able to reach her. "I'm here, Hermione, I'm here."

Of course he was there. Where else would he be? And so she would dive into his mind, picking through his thoughts and memories. Sometimes she whispered, sometimes she bludgeoned. Sometimes she healed the damage and sometimes she would rend him. That was one thing, a very interesting, entertaining, useful thing, but her true discovery came some months later.

She called it hybrid-Legilimency. The art of Legilimency could only view or manipulate, technically, the structure, the past and present, of the mind. It wasn't enough.  _ Learning _ , as lovely as it was, was as a finite as the resource. If one could manipulate the  _ future _ of the mind, the possibilities would be endless.

That's the object of the Imperius- sort of. The Imperius hardly even touches the mind, except to pacify it. It's a form of forced hypnotism, where nothing about it is voluntary and personal morals have nothing at all to do with it. If, however, one could work directly on the mind, change the morals themselves...

She could mould a person into anything she wanted. Anything at all.

Hermione discovered it on accident. It was a bad day among bad days, and her sanity seemed to be locked in a cell farther away where she couldn't reach it.  _ Beat your head against the walls, _ she projected.  _ You want to. You've wanted to for ages. It's better to be dead than to be in here. _ She hadn't even really realized that she'd done it until the cockroach sent her a yellowed grin and slammed his head back into the wall behind him. And then again. And again.

_ And she watched. _ She watched until his brain stopped functioning altogether. She watched until he died.

Later she regretted destroying her project, but it couldn't be helped.

There was little option for then except to wait. Perhaps the gods would smile upon her, and bring her back to the start again.


	3. Grave Ramifications

**_Year II-_ ** _ Grave Ramifications _

The funeral was... odd. Regulus couldn't figure out quite why.

McGonagall stood by the shrouded corpse with hands clasped together and her mouth a straight line. She'd seemed to gain another few decades overnight, as her hair was no longer only streaked with grey. Her skin seemed rather grey, too.

It was late June, only a few short weeks after the end of fourth year. The cause of Dumbledore's death was no mystery; the girl was all over the Prophet, and every other newspaper besides. Samples of her blood showed that no country would claim her. Her name, according to the girl herself, was Hermione Granger, and she was sixteen years old. She'd murdered the most powerful wizard alive with a cursed ring.

Regulus hadn't seen the Headmaster's body, but he had heard horrified murmurs that he was mummy-like, barely more substantial than ash. Hardly recognizable at all. Three fingers, one attached to the murder weapon, had been removed from his right hand. The entire scene was, apparently, shocking and grisly.

Despite the sheer number of deaths and funerals occurring that very summer, the turnout for Dumbledore's funeral was impressive. Seas of elderly men and women crowded the area closest to the coffin, some of them grieving loudly. Regulus could count at least one representative from each House, and in some cases nearly the whole clan was in attendance. The Potters were somewhere far in front, along with Regulus's wayward brother. He didn't dare look at them.

His parents sat on either side of him, stoically mournful expressions firmly planted on their faces. Regulus knew that they were no fans of Dumbledore and were possibly even secretly thrilled that he was dead, but it was impossibly uncivil to show any disdain towards the dead man, not at such a time when even his staunchest excoriators were obligated to sympathize with him. The old adage,  _ do not speak ill of the dead,  _ applied now more than ever.

There was no  _ peace _ to it, just a group of people united in nervous energy and mourning.

When it was all over and the flames died down, everyone stood and made their way to the castle. Regulus caught a glimpse of Sirius. His face was unabashedly streaked with tears and he had his arm around Potter's shoulder. Most of the Gryffindors were inconsolable, now that he thought about it. The Hufflepuffs weren't far behind. But the Ravenclaws and Slytherins kept their dignities and refrained from making a scene. Even though it was a funeral, one of the very few places it was socially acceptable to make a scene.

The bruises and gashes seemed to be entirely healed, for all that Sirius had run away just days before.

As one, his parents placed a hand on each shoulder, boxing him in. He didn't look at his brother again.

He and his parents Apparated home and Regulus excused himself to his room.

The summer passed quickly. Every day there were reports of Muggles and Muggleborns murdered in their homes, in Diagon Alley, in Hogsmeade, in the streets. The Dark Lord rose rapidly with the figurehead of his opposition defeated. Tensions were high. Family after family bowed their heads to the Dark Lord.

Most Muggleborns didn't dare go to Hogwarts. They could no longer take the safety of Hogwarts for granted. If someone could kill the Headmaster in his office, what would prevent anyone from disposing of the filth in common rooms and dormitories?

Evans still showed up, as Snape noticed aloud. Regulus almost felt sorry for her. McGonagall was far better as a teacher and even as a Head of House than as a Headmistress, and he already knew she could do very little if someone were to decide to target her precious Mudblood. Sirius showed up as well, arm in arm with Potter and leading Pettigrew and Lupin. Some things would never change, and lions were one of those things. Always more interested in being brave than saving their own bloody hides.

Some people ended up practically worshiping that Granger girl. She'd done what none had managed to do, and that wasn't for lack of trying. It was a pity she was in Azkaban, they said. The Dark Lord would reward her above all others.

There were even some hare-brained attempts to stage a rescue, but the Ministry cracked down on them. No one else tried quite so publicly. No one succeeded.

Few people were as divisively adored and loathed as she was.

Regulus took the Dark Mark in Sirius's place over Christmas break. Sirius had no idea.

Now that Dumbledore, the only person the Dark Lord feared, was dead, the Dark Lord was entirely unopposed. Hogwarts was the first to go. McGonagall, sensible despite being a Gryffindor, stepped aside quietly, probably in an effort to remain in a position to help her students. The Dark Lord himself stepped up to be Headmaster, and in the morning all but a few of the Muggleborns who'd come back were gone, spirited away to the Muggle world. Evans, once again, stayed.

The Dark Lord made an example out of her. Potter devised some harebrained scheme to rescue her, and ended up Avada'd for his trouble. Sirius went berserk and try to bloody  _ ambush _ the Dark Lord. Regulus didn't have nearly enough influence to save him. Sirius was chained to the ceiling in the Great Hall for over a week before the Dark Lord got bored and killed him.

There was nothing left to fight for, so Regulus retreated into himself and made his mum proud.

 


End file.
